Today Will Be Better, I Swear!
by odd-gelato
Summary: One day at a time, Stanley learns how to live in his brother's house.
1. Chapter 1

_Finally, after all these long years of waiting... I'm actually writing a Gravity Falls fic! I was debating posting this whole thing as one chapter, because I might want to go back and change stuff in the different sections, but it's turning out to be bigger than I expected and if I wait too long to at least_ start _posting it, I might never actually finish it. So here we go! (Title is from the song by Stars)  
_

* * *

[1]

Stan doesn't sleep that night.

Instead, he lays on the couch and stares at the ceiling. The room is fairly lived in, the assorted research documents strewn about the desk indicating that this is probably an office. It has an ugly blue and yellow shag carpet. There had been a time when Stan would have teased his brother mercilessly for owning such an atrocity.

He tries not to think about Ford. The grain of the wooden ceiling, he tells himself, is very interesting. It has textures that vary, and the shades of brown from one plank to the next are slightly different in places. Very fascinating.

But between his eyes and the _intriguing_ woodwork floats a vision of Ford, his face white with terror, his lips forming desperately around the words _Stanley help me!_ , and then, when it's all over, his glasses lying abandoned on the cold floor.

Stan absently rubs his thumb over the rim of the glasses. The roar of the portal had been so intense that when it finally stopped, the return of silence was like a thunderclap on his ears. In that stifling, sickening stillness, the clatter of Ford's glasses hitting the ground might as well have been a gunshot.

He tries not the think about the darkened machine floors beneath him, but it's like he can _feel_ it. Its presence is ominous, pricking at his spine, and he feels unsafe with his back to it. Despite this (and the fiery ache in his shoulder), he doesn't move. His body is like lead, too heavy to so much as twitch a finger.

He tries not to think about anything at all.

He fails.


	2. Chapter 2

_I was gonna wait until tomorrow to post this, to span it out and give myself a buffer (since I have two more chapters after this already done), but I'm an impatient baby and wanted to post something a bit more substantial than the just first chapter. The following chapters are going to get posted slower._

* * *

[2]

Some time around dawn, hunger begins to gnaw at Stan too sharply to resist any longer, so he heaves himself off the couch and shuffles blearily into the kitchen. The house had followed its owner in his downward spiral, and barely half the contents of the fridge are anything resembling edible. He finds some bread that isn't moldy and makes toast. Even though he hasn't had anything to eat since yesterday morning, he feels too ill to manage more than two slices. He thinks he should probably go see a doctor about the burn, but he's had worse that he'd taken care of on his own. Not having health insurance is a bitch, and sometimes there's certain types of injuries that make people ask the kinds of questions Stan doesn't want to have to answer.

After sitting at the table for some time, staring vacantly out the window at the snow-blanketed forest, he finally decides it's time to do a little exploring.

The place is a fucking _mess_. He fumbles for light switches in each room he enters, but rarely finds them, and so his self-led tour is slowed as he awkwardly navigates the scattered papers and gadgets in the dark.

He contemplates tidying up a bit, but can't bring himself to touch anything. Everything here is Ford's, not his. Ford might be gone, but his shadow looms over Stan, suffocating him. The walls begin to close in, and he zips on his jacket and escapes to the outdoors.

The winter air is chilly but refreshing, and he inhales deeply. It's been a long while since he's breathed air this clear. The crunch of snow under his boots as he makes his way to the tree line is strangely calming, and he thinks that maybe he could get used to this.

He runs a gloved hand over the rough bark of a tree and looks back at the house. It's a grey, unfriendly thing, hunkered down sullenly behind its haphazard barbed-wire fences. With a twinge of unease, he wonders what could have possibly turned confident, adventurous Stanford into a paranoid, reclusive trainwreck. The woods suddenly seem a lot darker, so he makes his way back towards the house, glancing warily over his shoulder. He puts his hand on the doorknob, then slowly withdraws and sits on the steps instead, fishing a battered packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. There's only three left, and after a moment of contemplation he puts them away again.

The silence has taken an eerie edge, but Stan isn't sure he's ready to go back inside, and so he waits on the porch, trying to ignore the raised hairs on the back of his neck.

Movement catches his eye and he freezes, holding his breath. There's some rustling, and then a deer steps out of the trees. Stan watches it trot daintily over the snow and forces himself to relax.

More deer emerge from the forest to join the first. A few give him a cursory glance before deciding he's not a threat and cross to a collection of buckets just outside the barbed wire and begin to eat from them. After a moment of puzzlement, Stan realizes that Ford must have been leaving food out for them, and he can't help smiling. When they were small, Ford was always feeding the stray cats around the neighborhood, no matter how many times Filbrick yelled at him. Stan is glad that at least that hasn't changed.

He stays where he is until the deer finish and vanish back into the woods as quietly as they'd appeared, and finally pushes himself to his feet and goes back inside.

The first thing his eyes are drawn to once he closes the front door behind him is the door down to the lower levels. It feels like it's calling to him.

Yesterday, after he'd finished pounding at the controls in a futile attempt at restarting the portal, he'd turned to the journal. But the damn thing was full of codes and ciphers that he couldn't make heads or tails of, and he felt like he'd have better luck just kicking it until it worked again. Still, he persisted, poring over the book for nearly an hour. But then he began to find his attention dragged back to the portal itself more and more frequently, with mounting dread. Even inactive, the portal felt… _alive_. Like it was poised to strike, like it was hungry and Ford hadn't been enough for it. Eventually, he couldn't take it any more and fled up the stairs, bringing the journal with him.

Stan doesn't want to go back down there again. He wants his brother back so desperately, but he gets chills just _thinking_ about the thing.

No, it's worse than chills. It's a dull, icy terror that wraps tight around his throat and squeezes the air from his chest and coils heavy in the pit of his stomach. It fills his head with blue light and his ears with Stanford's screams.

He stands in front of the door with no memory of crossing the room, and tells himself he should open it.

He doesn't.

Instead, he goes into the kitchen to make coffee, but the coffee machine is broken. He spends the rest of the afternoon fixing it.

That night he _does_ sleep, but only fitfully.


	3. Chapter 3

[3]

Stan wakes up the next morning freezing cold. The window glints with the crystalline pattern of frost around its edges as the sun shines through, bright but without warmth. He can see his breath, and he shivers, regretting his decision to not look for something more substantial than the small blanket thrown over the arm of the couch. Pulling it as tightly around his broad shoulders as he can, he sits up and rubs his feet on the awful shag rug to bring some life back into them. (He fails to notice the sparks of static electricity.) Once he can feel his toes again, he stands up and steps out into the hall. There's no carpet here, and he swears loudly as he does an odd skipping run over the chilly wood, wishing he'd worn socks as he hurries to gather up warmer clothing.

Even after he's bundled up, it's a few minutes more before his body begins to approach a comfortable temperature. He stomps around the house in search of the thermostat, only to discover that it's not working.

"Seriously, Poindexter?" he shouts at the empty air. "Does _anything_ in this miserable hut work?" He kicks the wall, and the wood cracks a little under the force of his steel-toed boots. Immediately, he feels a pang of guilt and looks away. "There must be a backup generator around here somewhere," he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. The portal probably sucks up energy like nobody's business, and you'd have to be some kind of fool to not have an alternative source of energy in case something went wrong. Ford might have lost his marbles, but he was no fool.

Grumbling, Stan goes outside and trudges through the snow around to the back of the house. Sure enough, there's an ancient monstrosity of a generator that looks like it had been excavated from the bottom of a junkyard pile. A quick check tells him that, thankfully, the gas tank is almost full. He grabs the crank and wrenches at it.

Instantly, agony lances through his shoulder, driving him to his knees, and he grits his teeth against a scream. It takes a few moments to come back to himself, but when he does, he realizes that he's crying, tears leaving icy tracks down his cheeks. Suddenly, everything is crashing down around him. He doubles over, forehead pressed to the snow as sobs wrack his body.

Ford is gone.

Those three words are all he can think, clanging in his head like a funeral bell. It hadn't really sunk in yet, but now it's finally caught up to him, slamming into him like a ton of bricks.

 _Ford is gone_.

There isn't even any way to tell if he's dead or alive. Stan doesn't have the first clue as to where the portal leads. For all he knows, his brother was toast the second the portal closed.

And he's just a dumber, sweatier version of Ford. What hope does he have of getting such a complex machine to work again? He can barely even read the fucking journal!

He's not sure how long he stays like that, as sobs give way into shuddering gasps. After a while, he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, his harsh breathing the only sound in the frigid air. He can't remember the last time he'd cried that hard. He's never thought of himself as a crier – that was Ford. Stanford cried, and Stanley punched whoever made him cry.

He sits back on his heels, arms hanging limply at his sides and head bowed. His face feels frozen.

Eventually, he stands up again, looking at the generator. He thinks about his shoulder, and then he thinks _fuck it_. Wrapping both hands around the crank, he throws his weight into it. The burn screams in protest, but he ignores it. As the crank turns, the generator begins to grumble into life. There's a cough and a puff of exhaust, and then the sound becomes a steady rumble.

Stan steps back, hands on his hips. The thing looks like a piece of junk, but it still works.

He pauses to consider that sentence, then pats the puttering machine and wanders back inside.

Wiping the frost from his cheeks, he goes to stand in front of The Door. The pain in his shoulder has faded to a dull ache, and he figures he should try to find out if Ford has any analgesics around. He'll get to that in a minute, though. He reaches out, puts his hand on the doorknob. Through the glove, he imagines that he can feel it pulsing, like a living thing. It sends shivers down his spine, and he withdraws. His shoulder twinges, and he goes to raid the medicine cabinet.

That night, he sleeps warm under a pile of blankets.


	4. Chapter 4

[4]

This morning, Stan manages three whole slices of toast and a glass of nearly-expired milk. He has the journal open on the table in front of him, and he chews slowly, distracted by his reading. The pages about the portal go over his head, but the rest of the book is full of all kinds of wild stuff. There's something comforting about looking over Ford's neat lettering, the painstakingly detailed sketches, the ink splatters undoubtedly caused when Ford got overexcited about something. Gravity Falls really is the perfect place for Ford, overrun with all its sci-fi mystery weirdness.

So what went wrong? If this journal is anything to go by, Gravity Falls seems mostly harmless, if bizarre.

Then again, there are still two more journals.

He snaps the book shut and stands, chair screeching back over the wood. Full of resolve, he storms toward The Door.

But the closer he gets, the more that resolve wavers, and by the time he gets there it's completely gone.

"Fine," he snaps. "We'll do baby steps. I'm going to turn this doorknob."

He reaches out, hand shaking. When his fingers brush the cold metal, static sparks and he leaps back in surprise. Silently, he curses how jumpy he's being.

"This is stupid!" he shouts at The Door, and stomps back into the kitchen. "It's just a dumb door! How hard is it to open a door?"

But he knows it's not just about The Door – it's what's _beyond_ it, beyond and deep below. The choppy dreams from what little sleep he gets are haunted by it. The place where he lost his brother again, possibly for good this time. He can still feel the impact of his hands on Ford's chest, and the lurching nausea when he realized that Ford was falling _up_. And then, even as it pulled his brother away, the portal pushed Stan back, like it _wanted_ him to stay. Like it was making sure there was no way he could follow.

Stan clenches his fists in his hair. _The portal is not a sentient being_ , he tries to tell himself. _It can't 'want' things. This was a freak accident that also happened to be your fault._

But he can't convince himself.

He goes back to The Door. He kicks it. Pain bites at his shoulder. He returns to the kitchen.

He walks back and forth between The Door and the kitchen a few more times until he finally works up the courage to grab the doorknob. It's slippery under his sweating palm, and he has to grip it tighter to turn it.

It clicks open.

He lets go.

It clicks shut.

He leaves.

Sitting down at the kitchen table again, he reopens the journal to the page that he'd left off on, and continues reading.

When he falls asleep that night, it's with the book still in his hands.

He doesn't see the dark shape that moves past the window.


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter contains some violence, and I apologize for all Stanley damage that occurs.  
_

* * *

[5]

Today, he decides, he's going to open The Door. So before he attempts breakfast, he goes to stand in front of it. It wavers in his vision, and he rubs his eyes until it steadies again.

"Okay, Stanley," he says. "You've already turned the knob. All you gotta do now is pull."

He laces his fingers together and stretches, cracking his knuckles. His shoulder stings, but the painkillers are doing their job and he's gotten used to it.

Abruptly, a wave of dizziness washes over him, and he staggers, bracing himself against The Door.

 _You need to eat_.

He grinds his palm against his forehead. All he'd been eating these past few days was bread, and he hadn't even finished off the loaf – a loaf that had already been started on.

 _You're no good to me half-starved_.

Stan stiffens and whips around. "Who's there?" he shouts. Then, in a small voice, he tries, "Stanford?"

But the house is empty and silent but for the wind whistling in the eaves.

He sags against the wall, pressing a hand to his head. Everything feels odd and disjointed. The floor sways under him.

Food, _real_ food, would probably be a good place to start. Then a shower would be nice, and it would make sure the burn gets cleaned again, too. He hasn't showered since the last time he got a decent meal, and that had been… when? What day is it today?

He stumbles into the kitchen and rummages through the cupboards. There's a large stash of canned soup and beans, so he grabs two cans of chicken soup and pours them into a pot. Thankfully, the stove works, and it's not long before he's poured himself a nice hot bowl of soup. The warm smell of it finally makes his stomach welcome to the idea of food, and he practically inhales it. He demolishes both cans, plus a heaping serving of the beans.

Once he's done, he leans back in the chair and looks out the window. It's snowing again, and the wind is rattling the shutters. Something nags at the back of his mind, and he narrows his eyes. The trees are barely visible through the flurry, but he is suddenly positive that there is something out there. He can't explain how he knows – he just _does_. It might just be the paranoia that's been building up in the back of his head since he got here finally coming to a peak, but if the past ten years have taught him anything, it's to trust his gut. His hands itch for a weapon to hold, and he decides that the shower can wait a little longer. It's time to get his guns out.

He goes to the front hall and picks up the crossbow. He'll only have one shot with this – even if he knew where Ford kept the arrows, it would take too long to reload. But he doesn't want to be caught weaponless on his way to get weapons, and one shot would probably be enough to get him safely to his car.

Probably.

Stan takes his keys out of his pocket and loops them over his finger so they'll be in his hand when he gets to his car. Then, resting the stock of the bow against his shoulder, he opens the front door and looks out. Nothing is apparent, but he can barely see ten feet in front of him. Holding the crossbow at the ready, he creeps across the yard towards where his car is parked in front of the fence, checking around him as he goes. He reaches his car without incident and unlocks the trunk. Looking around warily as he sets the crossbow aside, he lifts the lid and pushes the junk inside to the back so he can open the secret compartment. Within, he has a pistol, a revolver he won in a poker game, and a sawed-off shotgun, along with plenty of ammo for each and a few playthings designed for dirty brawling. He loads the ammo and the handguns into a duffel bag and pockets his favorite set of brass knuckles.

As he picks up the shotgun, rational thought kicks in. What the hell is he doing? Listening to his gut is one thing, but arming himself to the teeth because the house he's living in is kind of spooky? He's going to end up like Stanford at this rate!

But he still takes the bag out of the trunk before he shuts it, and then he turns around. He stops.

The bag slips from his hand and plops into the snow.

"Ah," he manages, in a strangled kind of way.

It's possibly a dog, in a loose sense of the word, with a lot of maybe-bear thrown in. Mostly, it's solid muscle, covered with wiry black hair. There are a lot of fangs, two of which are about the length of his forearm, and claws that could gut him without even trying.

And it's _right there_. He can smell its rotten breath.

It begins to growl, a sound that reaches right into the most primitive part of him and _yanks_. Without even thinking about it, he brings the shotgun up and pulls the trigger once (pump), twice (pump). It lets out a pained howl, and he grabs the bag of ammo and jumps up onto the trunk of the car, leaps over the roof, and slides down off the hood. He hits the ground running, stumbling a little in the deep snow, and takes off towards the vague silhouette of the house, squinting against the wind.

The howling stops, but he doesn't take comfort in this. He looks over his shoulder and sees it barreling towards him, and he rolls out of the way just in time. It whirls, snarling, and he realizes that his back is to the barbed-wire fence. It lunges, and he throws himself to the side, and instead of landing on him, it lands on the fence, becoming tangled in the coils.

Stan takes advantage of this and runs for the door, grateful that the wind is mostly at his back. He trips up the steps and slams into the door, breathing hard as he fumbles for the doorknob.

It's locked.

And if this one's locked, the other one is, too.

He swallows and turns, back pressed against the door. The creature is still struggling, but it's almost free.

Four shots left.

The porch isn't a good place to be – he has to find some high ground. He leaves the bag, then leaps off the side of the porch and runs, headed for the back. If he remembers right, he could probably haul himself onto the lower part of the roof if he gets up on the generator-

There's a twang, and then the sound of huge paws thudding over the ground. Stan skids around the corner and glances back. Too late, he sees the massive black head just before it slams against him. For a sickening moment, the ground leaves him, and then he crashes back into the snow, rolling until he finally slides to a stop in a snowdrift. He opens his eyes. The dog-thing is approaching him slower now, satisfied that he isn't going to try to run anymore – and he isn't. He's too dizzy, too shaken. But somehow, just within reach, is the shotgun. He grabs at it and struggles upright. The creature's almost on him now, and he inhales, exhales, steadies himself. He can see the old, dried blood crusted around its muzzle, and the slowly oozing wounds where he'd hit it on the shoulder, apparently with little effect.

Oh, but he is going to make it effective _this_ time. He waits until the monster lowers its head to sniff at him, and then he presses the gun against its nose and pulls the trigger. It reels back, screeching, and raises a paw to slash at him. He aims at its throat and empties the rest of the shells into it, still pulling the trigger even after the gun is empty. Slowly, the creature goes limp and topples over.

His breath comes in ragged, panicked gasps, and he sits there and stares as the snow around its head begins to turn red. After a minute, he gradually becomes aware of the fact that _everything hurts_. Yet, miraculously, nothing feels broken. He looks down at himself and grimaces. There's blood everywhere. He'd be grossed out, but at the moment he's just grateful that none of it is his.

The wind begins to die down, and he wonders what he's going to do about this giant carcass that's now in his yard. But just as he's thinking this, the body goes crumbly around the edges. He watches with wide eyes as it flakes into ash and blows away, until nothing's left except the blood and some powdery grey remnants. Once he's able to process the fact that this just happened, he figures that at this point the weather will take care of the rest eventually.

Achingly, he pushes himself to his feet and slogs through the snow back to the front door, shotgun hanging loosely in his grip. He picks the lock with his California driver's license (reminding him that he's going to have to get one for Oregon now), and drags the duffel bag inside. Dropping everything once he's in the house, he makes his way over to The Door and yanks it open.

"I just killed some kinda huge fuckin' dog-bear-monster!" he screams down the stairs. "So fuck you!"

He slams The Door shut and limps away, hauling himself up the stairs and into the bathroom. Peeling off his clothes, he leaves them on the floor and turns on the shower. The water is hot, and he sighs with relief as it washes over him. Even after he's cleaned up, he stays in until the hot water finally runs out. He dries off, contemplates his clothes, and decides there's no way in hell he's putting them back on until he's done some laundry. Wrapping a towel around himself, he seeks out Ford's bedroom.

He finds it in the attic. The clutter in here is worse than the office he's been sleeping in. There's sheets of paper everywhere, most of them blank, some of them crumpled into balls. He makes his way over to the closet and opens it. It's full of button-down shirts in varying shades of off-white. "Nerd clothes," he groans. "You're a hermit, Poindexter! Who the hell are you dressing up for?"

Reluctantly, he buttons on one of them and finds a pair of slacks as well. He feels uncomfortable and out of place in his brothers clothes, but option two is going to the car and getting his spare clothes, and he's not big on the idea of going outside again any time soon. So he'll just have to live with it until he's cleaned the blood out of the clothing he has.

A stack of books on the nightstand catches his eye. He goes over and picks one up, flipping through it. He picks up the next, and the next, and the next.

Closing his eyes, he bumps his forehead against the one in his hands and smiles.

Codebooks.

That night he falls asleep at the office desk, surrounded by his efforts at decoding the journal.


	6. Chapter 6

[6]

Sunlight slants across the room, and Stanley cracks one eye open. Groggily, he sits upright and peels a sheet of paper off the side of his face. His body aches all over, especially his right shoulder, and his head is killing him. He fumbles for the bottle of Vicodin he'd found in Ford's medicine cabinet and takes two.

What time did he fall asleep last night? He thinks about the fabled "college all-nighters," and wonders if that's what his life is going to become.

Damn. He isn't suited for this. When he stayed up all night, it was usually because he was doing something illegal. He'd never really gotten the hang of the whole "studying" thing. It had always been easier to just piggyback off of Ford.

He slouches back in the chair. Well, now it's all coming back around to bit him in the ass, isn't it? He should've tried harder. But it's always been so _difficult_ to focus, and sometimes all the words and numbers start running together, and he gets it all backwards. He'd made pretty much zero progress last night, even with the codebooks to help him, and he feels so fucking _stupid_.

Standing up, he strangles the urge to punch something and stomps out of the office. He's not sure where he's going – he just needs to be moving. Still, he's unsurprised when he ends up in the same room as The Door. Looking around, it dawns on him that he hasn't properly explored this room yet. He notices a ladder against the wall adjacent to The Door, and he goes to it and looks up at the hatch in the ceiling it leads to. Curiosity piqued, he climbs the ladder, grunting as he shoves against the heavy trapdoor. When he finally manages to push it open, he realizes why it had been so hard to lift – it leads to the roof, and had been weighed down by a layer of snow. Leaving it open, he goes to fetch his shoes and Ford's spare trench coat before crawling up onto the roof.

Hands on his hips, he surveys his surroundings. The storm had blown over some time during the night, leaving the forest coated in pristine, crystalline white. He can see his car, half buried under the snow, and there's no sign of yesterday's struggle. Sitting down, he crosses his legs and instinctively reaches into his pocket for the packet of cigarettes before remembering this isn't actually his jacket. Yet, to his surprise, his fingers close around a packet anyway, and he pulls it out and inspects it. It's half-empty, and the exact same brand he likes. He digs into the other pocket and, sure enough, finds a lighter. As separated as they'd gotten, they'd still stayed the same in at least one small way. He smiles as he lights a cigarette. It's strangely comforting, in a way. He can easily imagine the both of them sitting up here, sharing a smoke.

"I've been mad at you for so long," he says, exhaling a puff of smoke, "but I still missed you the whole time. I know I hurt you, I know I messed up, and I… I'm sorry for that. I never meant…" He takes a long drag, eyes downcast. "I was always so proud of you. But I was scared. You were gonna- You were leaving me behind." His hand shakes, scattering the ash from the end of the cigarette. "You left me behind."

He's quiet for a while after that, smoking the cigarette like it had done something to personally offend him. When he's done, he stubs it out viciously in the snow.

"It's always been about _you_ ," he says bitterly. "You were the golden child, the favorite son." It takes a few tries for his trembling hands to light the next one. " _Wunderkind_ , I heard one of the teachers say once. Dunno what the hell it means but it must be somethin' special. And I was just the dumb one tagging along behind you. I knew I'd never amount to anything, but because you were there I hoped- I hoped maybe I could make it anyway. You were…" He rubs a hand over his eyes, willing himself not to cry. "You were all I had."

He looks at the empty space beside him. "But I guess in the end _you_ never really needed _me_ ," he concludes softly.

His headache has been steadily growing worse, and he remembers that he hasn't actually eaten yet today, so he puts out the cigarette without bothering to finish it and stands up. The sudden movement makes his head spin, and his vision goes dark for a second. "Whoa," he says as he just barely manages to keep his balance. He climbs back down the ladder, shoulder protesting painfully as he does, even through the painkillers.

As he goes into the kitchen, he's struck by another wave of dizziness, and he supports himself on a chair. When he puts a hand to his forehead, it feels slick and hot under his palm. He becomes more aware of the burning sensation in his shoulder, and realizes a little too late that _just maybe_ the painkillers he's been popping have been blocking certain warning signals.

His knees buckle under him, and he's out before he hits the floor.

* * *

 _"_ _Sweet sarsaparilla… Stanford? Stanford!"_


	7. Chapter 7

_Hoo, boy, sorry this took me a while, I really got stuck on a couple parts of it. Hope it's worth the wait!_

* * *

[?]

He becomes vaguely aware of hands hooked under his arms, and his shoulder is screaming from the pressure being put on it – but the pain is nothing compared to the panic that overwhelms him when he realizes _he's being dragged somewhere_. Instinctively, he begins to fight back. He's been dragged places before, and it _never_ ends well.

"For heaven's sakes, Stanford, quit'cher squirmin'! I'm only tryin'a he- oof!"

Stan feels his fist connect with someone's jaw, and the hands release him, dropping him to the floor. The impact with the hard wood is agonizing and he can't really see right, but he still tries to scramble away. He thinks maybe he's in the hallway, but everything is tilting wildly around him, and he collapses. There's a hazy impression of a worried face – floppy hair and a weak chin – above him, and then it all goes dark again.

* * *

He's lying on his stomach. Is he on a bed? There's a mattress under him, so he must be. His mind feels a few inches off-center from his body. Something cold and damp is draped over his forehead, as well as his right shoulder. Where's his shirt? He groans and tries to push himself upright, but his head spins and he flops back down.

"Easy, easy," says a distant voice, and a wet cloth is pressed to his lips, dribbling water into his mouth. He sucks it up greedily, then tries to say something, but his tongue feels like cotton. Heavy sleep pulls at him, and he fades away.

* * *

 _He limps through the grey fog, clutching his shoulder tightly, as if that will make the pain go away. Dark shapes flicker around him, like memories not quite there. Snow crunches under his boots as he comes to a stop_

 _(don't stop)_

 _in front of a swing set. He sits_

 _(don't sit)_

 _on the left one, because the right one is broken._

 _(but it's not your spot)_

 _The tide is coming in, the frost-crusted edge of the water creeping up to touch his toes. There's a ship ready to sail, and he stands again. He begins to walk_

 _(keep moving)_

 _but never gets any closer. He tries to run, but the water is up to his knees now and he slips, falling forward into the ocean._

 _(it's too late)_

 _He tumbles through the dark and crashes face down in the snow. The house is in front of him, bits of it floating up and away. He opens the front door and steps into the portal room. The door closes behind him, leaving him in darkness._

 _(turned out)_

 _Sudden brightness blinds him, and he raises a hand to shield his eyes against the blue light. He can hear Stanford crying out for help, and he reaches_

 _(you)_

 _for his brother's hand_

 _(it's your fault)_

 _but the water is rising around him, dragging him back, and the whole right half of him is blazing as he grasps at the air and their fingers almost brush_

 _(it's all your fault)_

 _and then it's dark again and the emptiness crushes down on him and a hot iron sears into his flesh a mark of failure_

 _(some brother you turned out to be)_

* * *

Stanley wakes up screaming, legs tangled in the thin sheets. Curling tightly in on himself, he twists his fingers into his hair as he stares wide-eyed at the wall without seeing it. His whole body is wracked with shudders, and he can feel the sweat pouring off him.

There are thudding footsteps, and then a shadow falls over him. "What on earth-?" he hears, but it doesn't really get through to him, even when a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. The voice is talking, but his world has shrunk to a pinpoint behind his eyes, and his breath comes in shallow, panicked pants.

"I'm sorry," he gasps. "I'm sorry, please, please don't go, don't leave me, I'm sorry-" The words come out in incoherent fits and wheezes. A cool rag wipes the sweat and tears from his face, and eventually he subsides, descending back into murky black.

* * *

He drifts in and out of consciousness, plagued by burning nightmares. Some of them are about Stanford, but some of them are not. The past ten years have left plenty of marks on him – prison, homelessness, living on his wits, surviving by the skin of his teeth – and each one now finds its place in his dreams, distorted and compounded by his raging fever.

He doesn't fully register the other person's presence. They're a pair of hands and a voice that urges him to drink water and some kind of broth, and sometimes tries to calm him when he starts screaming again.

He's not sure how long this goes on. It's all just a haze that muddles up the world, blurring sleep and wakefulness until he can't tell one from the other.

Then one morning, he drags himself awake and, when he opens his eyes, his vision is clear.

He still feels a bit woozy, but he's able to sit up without being struck by vertigo. Running a hand through the greasy mess of his hair, he looks around. It isn't the office or Ford's room, so he figures it must be a spare bedroom, or something like that.

There's a creak of floorboards, drawing his attention to the doorway. In it stands a willowy, rumpled man. There's something about him that makes Stan think of those tiny dogs whose default state of existence is anxiety.

"You're awake," the man says, pushing his round glasses up his nose. "G-good. That's good." He wrings his hands for a moment in indecision, then asks, "You're not Stanford, are you?"

"Stanley," Stan replies. "His brother."

A strange kind of relief clears up the man's expression. "Ah. Yes. Stanford's told me about you."

"Nothing good, probably," Stan says sourly.

The man seems startled by this tone. "J-just that you exist. I'm Fiddleford, by the way." He tugs at the cuff of his tweed jacket. "Fiddleford McGucket."

There's an awkward silence, then Stan clears his throat and says, "Thanks. For, y'know, saving me, and all."

"Of- of course," Fiddleford replies. "Couldn't leave you like that, in good conscience."

"Sorry about the, uh…" Stan gestures to his own face.

Fiddleford puts his hand to the bruise on his jaw, already beginning to fade into splotchy purple and yellow. "A-hah, yes, well. You've got a mean left hook."

Stan cringes a bit, and then something occurs to him. He swings his legs around so he's sitting on the edge of the bed. "How did you find me?"

Fiddleford's eyes dart around the room, and he twists his fingers together. "Just got me a kind of feelin' that I ought to come by, and saw you knocked out on the kitchen floor with a fever. I dunno how you got that burn a' yours, but you were a right fool not to get it treated."

"I thought I could handle it on my own," Stan mumbles. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days."

Stan puts a hand to his forehead. "Jesus."

"It's healin' alright now. Just keep it clean and don't exert yourself too much." With a disapproving look, Fiddleford adds, "You're lucky I still got my key to this place. I swear, it'd be just like Stanford to do the same damn thing."

"How do you know my brother?" Stan asks.

This seems to be a question Fiddleford has been dreading. He tugs at his collar nervously. "I, ah… I worked with him."

Before he can think about what he's doing, Stanley is on his feet and has Fiddleford by the shoulders. "Then you know how to work the portal? You gotta help me, man!"

Terror washes over the smaller man's face. "P-p-portal? I d-d-d… don't kn-know… d-don't… I- I- I-" He begins to tremble like a leaf in Stan's grip.

Alarmed, Stan lets go of him and takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Whoa there, buddy, it's alright." Finally, he takes in Fiddleford's full appearance. He looks even worse than Stanford had – bags under his eyes, unshaven, hair severely unbrushed, and probably hadn't changed clothes or slept in a week. "Forget I asked."

The corner of Fiddleford's mouth quirks up in a frenetic, humorless smile, and a small giggle involuntarily bubbles out of his throat. Then he puts a hand over his face and takes a few deep breaths. "F-forgive me. I've been… I…"

"Seems like we've both been having a rough time of it," Stan says before Fiddleford can work himself up again. He's beginning to feel a bit wobbly, and he sits back down on the bed.

Fiddleford gives him a shaky, grateful look. "I s'pose you could say that, yes."

"So has my brother's work messed up _everyone_ who's come into contact with it, or just us?" Stan asks, half-jokingly to try lightening up the mood a bit.

It backfires. Fiddleford's eye twitches, and he starts wringing his hands again. "We're the only ones who know," he says. He takes a step back, so he's in the hallway.

Stan realizes he's about to leave, and he struggles to his feet, reaching out to other man. "Fiddleford, if you worked with him, I need your help. I can't do this on my own."

Fiddleford recoils. "I can't help you," he says, "and even if I could, I wouldn't."

"But-"

" _No_."

The sharp tone nails Stanley to the floor.

Fiddleford's gaze averts, and he seems to be trying to fold in on himself. "I won't be back," he says. "And if you've got any sense left in you, you'll git outta this rotten town."

Stan swallows. "I can't," he replies.

Hands clenching, Fiddleford says, "You're just like him, then." He turns and heads for the front door.

"Hang on!" Stan calls, following after him. "Aren't you going to ask where he is?"

Fiddleford looks back over his shoulder, standing in the open doorway. Outside, the wind has picked up again. "I don't want to know," he says, and slams the door shut behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

_Okay so this took me a while because I had to sit down and figure out where this story is really going, since it's already shot off in a direction I hadn't expected it to. But I have things generally planned now, so I should be able to start updating fairly frequently again. Hooray!_

* * *

[9]

Fiddleford's abrupt departure leaves Stanley furious. He turns and punches the wall, and immediately regrets it. Massaging his knuckles, he paces back to the spare bedroom and flops down onto the bed.

What was that guy's problem?

He growls into the pillow. The more time he spends here, the weirder things get. And not in a cool way.

Fiddleford could have been the key to cracking everything! When he said he'd worked with Ford, the desperate hope that lit up in Stan had been overpowering.

And it had lasted for all of five seconds before it was ripped away from him.

Stan turns over and stares at the ceiling, sprawled out on the mattress. It's like his insides have been scooped out, and he's never felt so small. He wants to hit something, or cry. The crying seems more likely. Self-loathing rises like bile in his throat, and he curses himself for being so weak, but he can't stop the hot tears that prick at the corners of his eyes. Where does he even _go_ from here? Nothing makes sense anymore.

He wonders what would happen if he just didn't get up again. If he just laid here until the world went away. No one would miss him. No one would even notice he was gone. He can see it somehow, far into the future, when he's nothing but dust and the house has crumbled down around him, and no one ever knew, ever cared to know.

He doesn't matter. He's never mattered.

But this isn't just about him, is it? It's about Stanford, too. Stanford, waiting on the other side of the portal. Stanford, asking him for help.

Stanley feels a stinging bitterness in his chest. It really did always come back to Stanford. He had this weight to him, like the diagrams of black holes on those geeky posters of his. Without even meaning to, Ford bent the universe around him so that anything nearby fell into his gravitational pull.

It figures that the nerd would end up _literally_ bending the universe.

Stan isn't really sure what compels him to sit up. On autopilot, he gets out of bed, goes to the kitchen, and sits at the table. The journal is in front of him. He opens it. The wild and weird pass by his eyes as he flips half-heartedly through it.

This is Ford's world. Stanley doesn't have a place in it.

 _But what if…_

He stares vacantly at the pages, a tenuous, fragile thought forming in the back of his mind.

 _What if…_

It's like a tiny spark, trying to catch fire. He gently cups his hands around it and breathes life into it.

 _What if I_ make _myself a place?_

The idea is a jolt of electricity, lighting up his nerves with the sudden strike of inspiration. His chair nearly falls over as he jumps to his feet and races up the stairs to the attic. He nearly slips on the papers scattered on the floor of Ford's room, and he slides to a stop in front of the bookshelf. Textbooks, textbooks, encyclopedias, tomes, mythology, novels… Not what he's looking for.

"Come on, come on," he mutters. "He must have one."

He skids over to the desk and begins searching drawers. In the fourth one, he finds it. He lifts it out and brushes off the unlabeled dark red cover, then opens it just to make sure.

All the pages inside are blank.

The tension leaves his shoulders, and he sits down at the desk. He knew (he hoped) that Ford would have a spare one of his journals. And here it is, in his hands. A fresh journal.

He isn't artsy or methodical like Ford, he's never been good at taking notes. But maybe if he started writing everything down, it might all start to make sense. It won't be all science-y like the other journal, but it'll be _his_. His experiences, his continuation of the story, his _place_ in this whole mess.

Fixing the portal is for Stanford, but this journal is for Stanley, and no one else.

Stan tucks a pen behind his ear and makes his way back downstairs, returning to his spot at the kitchen table. Looking out the window, he wonders where to start. At some point, he should write about that monster thing that tried to eat him – that was definitely an experience. But he feels like there's other stuff that should come first, he just can't quite put his finger on it.

Maybe he doesn't have to start it tonight. It's getting dark out, and he's getting drowsy. The last vestiges of the sickness are still clinging to him, making him weary. So he decides to retreat to the spare bedroom, bringing his journal with him. Leaving the book on the nightstand, he crawls into bed.

As he's about to curl up under the covers, he realizes what he needs to do before anything.

Sitting up, he grabs his journal and opens it to the very first page. On the inside of the cover, he writes in his messy scrawl:

 _Property of Stanley Pines_


	9. Chapter 9

_Wow! Sorry this took so long! This chapter was a real doozy for some reason. I was trying to get it to go in one direction, and then it just kinda... well. Hope it's worth the wait! (Caution warning: towards the end there's some vomiting and a description of a panic attack.)_

* * *

[10]

Stan wakes up disoriented. He's grown used to being roused by sunlight, but the spare bedroom doesn't have windows. Still in the muddled place between sleep and consciousness, he rolls over in search of light, and falls off the bed.

He groans and pushes himself upright. Surprisingly, he feels relatively pain-free. Scratching his chest sleepily, he realizes that he never put a shirt back on. Fiddleford had vanished it somewhere, and Stan hadn't felt like trying to find a new one.

This makes him remember that he needs to clean the blood out of his _own_ clothes.

But first, breakfast. He heaves himself to his feet and wanders through the house to the kitchen. As he makes himself some soup, he wonders what other rooms he hasn't found, if he never noticed the spare bedroom before. Maybe he can make a map of the house, or at least try to. It'll give him a better sense of the layout, and who knows? It might come in handy.

Stan sits down at the table and stares out the window as he eats. He begins to create a mental list of things to do: laundry, get his stuff from the car, map the house, work on decoding the journal, go through The Door…

The last one makes his gut twist, and he puts down his spoon. He knows that he doesn't _technically_ have to go down to the portal room until he understands the journal better, but it's the principle of the thing. He's going to have to go down there eventually, so he should get started now.

Still, that's a long list of things to do today. His head is still feeling a little cloudy, so maybe he can skip the code stuff today. Work on getting settled instead.

Guilt pricks at him. He can't help feeling like he's stalling on the task to put off having to go to the basement.

 _Speaking practically_ , he tells himself, _it makes sense to set up a comfortable workspace first_.

Yeah. Sure.

He puts the leftover soup in the fridge and heads to the bathroom. His clothes are where he'd left them, the blood staining them now dry and crusty. Fortunately, he's gotten pretty good at getting blood out of his clothes. Unfortunately, monster blood seems to be made of tougher stuff. He manages to save his jacket (though he'll have to redo the patch-up on the shoulder), but the jeans are a lost cause. The few slightly-darker spots left behind on the red jacket can be passed off as nothing too unusual, but blood on denim is hard to mistake.

The shirt is clean (well, blood-free), so he puts it back on and hangs the jacket up to dry. He finds his boots and Ford's coat by the door, and is about to head out when he remembers what happened the last time he left the house. The duffel full of weaponry is where he'd left it at the base of the stairs, and he digs out the pistol and loads it. _Now_ he feels ready, and he steps out into the cold.

The snow is deep, but not so deep that he can't open his car doors. It takes some rummaging before he manages to drag his bag of spare clothes out of the backseat, a task made extra difficult by his paranoid impulse to repeatedly check behind him and keep a tight grip on the gun. Once he has the bag, he hurries back to the house.

Inside, he kicks off his boots and digs his spare pants out of the bag. He changes into them and drapes Stanford's slacks over the stair banister. Feeling much more comfortable in his own clothes, he retrieves his journal from the spare bedroom. After finding a pencil, he opens his journal to the first page and draws a rectangle that follows its edges.

"Okay," he says. "Let's do this. How hard can it be to draw a floor plan?"

He discovers that the answer is "pretty hard." The layout of the house is borderline bizarre, and he does so much erasing that at one point the paper tears. He rips the page out and starts a new one. It takes him over an hour to finally create a result he's satisfied with.

But the true prize of this venture comes when he opens a door in one of the hallways.

It's some kind of broom closet, but the center of the space is taken up by a punching bag. He stares for a moment, and then laughs out loud. Ford had never been a huge fan of the boxing lessons Filbrick had made them take, but Stan liked to tell him that it could be a pretty great stress reliever. Ford had always looked doubtful, but it seemed that, years later, he'd finally found the benefit in it.

Stan thinks he remembers seeing a hook in the ceiling of the office, so he hauls the bag out of the closet and drags it down the hallway. When he gets to the office, he's pleased to see he was right. Against the far wall is a three-fold mirror, and in front of that is a place to hang the bag. Grunting with the effort, he heaves it up and attaches it to the hook.

When he's done, he steps back and grins as he looks it over. He runs a hand through his hair, and the grin turns to a grimace at the oily texture. A shower is probably in order.

Once he's in the bathroom and out of his clothes, he takes this opportunity to examine the burn. He peels the bandage off as carefully as he can, considering the awkward position. The skin around the injury is still pink, but it's nothing worrying.

Stan frowns, wondering what the symbol means. It's definitely going to be with him for the rest of his life, so he should probably find out.

What was something that hot just doing out in the open like that? Come to think of it, why the hell was the portal so easy to turn on by accident? Shouldn't there have been safeguards, or something?

Then he remembers that Ford had always had his smarts, but he'd never been particularly good at common sense. Apparently, some things don't get better with age.

He sighs and climbs into the shower. The water feels good on his sweat-sticky skin, but washing his hair takes some real effort. Not for the first time, and almost certainly not for the last, he tells himself he should cut it.

It's nice, though, to be able to put on some clean clothes when he gets out. Getting a fresh bandage on his shoulder is tricky, but he manages it. He heads back downstairs, feeling a lot better than he had before.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he wavers uncertainly. On one hand, he can go to the office and get back to work on decoding the journal; on the other, he can make an attempt at going through The Door.

He thinks about the journal and the riddles it holds, and thinks that right now he'd rather fight two of those wolf-monsters than try cracking it open.

There are no wolf-monsters available, but there _is_ The Door.

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose.

He wanders around a bit, stopping by the office to look at the journal, maybe to convince himself that he _would_ rather work on it. After he decides that he really wouldn't, he takes a couple of swings at the punching bag, but it makes his shoulder twinge, so he stops.

Finally, he bites the bullet and goes to stand in front of The Door.

It's very normal looking, he realizes. He hasn't really taken the time to examine it before. The focus has been on interacting with it, not on the thing itself. But now that he _is_ taking the time, it's a little disappointing. It's pretty much like every other door in the world. You wouldn't think that behind it is a machine capable of…

He pauses.

What _is_ it capable of? What he'd gotten from Stanford's description was "this is a portal and it's dangerous," which, when you think about it, isn't all that helpful. Stanley knows instinctively it's dangerous – the moment he'd seen it, a sense of unease had begun to creep over him. And then watching his brother get sucked into it…

The memory drips like ice water down his spine, and he shivers.

Yet, Stanford had said a lot of words without actually explaining anything. Meant to unlock the mysteries of the universe, okay. Can be harnessed for terrible destruction, okay.

But why? _How_?

There's more to this story, Stanley's sure of it, and he doesn't like being left in the dark.

He opens the door.

The air is musty and stale, and he wrinkles his nose as he goes through the doorway. He tries not to think about where he's headed, instead taking it one step down at a time. When he reaches the elevator, he punches the button before he loses his nerve and steps inside. The elevator rumbles as it descends, and he clenches and unclenches his fists in an attempt to work the tension out of his body. He catches a glimpse of the ornate wooden door leading to the second floor, and briefly wonders what's beyond it before deciding that's a question for another time.

The lift jerks to a stop, and the doors slide open.

The control room is as dark and quiet as he left it, and apprehension twists his insides. It's a few more moments before he can bring himself to leave the elevator, and when he does, he walks carefully, as if afraid to wake some sleeping beast. He slinks over to the control panel in front of the observation window and looks out at the portal.

It's silent and cold, but he can see phantom flashes – memories of the glowing symbols and swirling light superimposed on the present. He tries to tell himself the portal is powerless now, but the echoes of the past are growing stronger, and he can hear Stanford screaming. His chest constricts and he claps his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound as he struggles to breathe. The roar of the portal and Ford's cries for help only get louder, and he turns away, stumbling for the elevator and practically falling inside. He pounds at the first floor button as the walls of the cab close in on him, and the ride back up is taking too long, too long. He's choking on his panic now, and he squeezes out between the doors before they've fully opened. The stairs seem to go on forever as he scrambles up them, and he throws himself through the doorway and slams The Door closed behind him. Back pressed against The Door, he slides to the floor, gulping down air.

He's not sure how long it takes him to get his breath back, but when he finally does, a wave of disgust crashes over him.

What kind of pathetic display had _that_ been? He's faced worse than an empty room with a useless piece of junk in it. Surely a dumb nerd basement has nothing on a Columbian jail cell, or being stuffed a cramped car trunk, or getting knifed in an alley, or _anything_ he went through before he got here. Surely he's stronger than this.

He pulls his knees up to his chest and drops his head between them, clasping his hands over the back of his neck. His whole body is shaking, and he thinks he might puke. When had this happened? When had he become so fragile?

Why is he so _scared_?

His gut lurches, and he heaves himself up onto unsteady feet and staggers to the office and the bathroom attached to it. He makes it to the toilet there just in time and collapses to his knees, doubling over the bowl as his stomach rejects its contents. When the retching finally subsides, he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and pushes upright. Turning, he spits into the sink, then rinses out his mouth. He twists the faucet off and looks into the mirror, and for a moment he sees Stanford looking back at him. Sudden anger surges through him, and he slams his fist into the glass. The mirror cracks but doesn't shatter, and all that's left is his own fractured reflection.

He sags against the counter. His throat burns and his body aches and his legs are like jelly under him. The anger drains out of him, taking everything else with it until he just feels tired and hollow and the world seems grey.

After a bit, he steps away from the sink and shuffles out of the bathroom. He makes a beeline for the couch and flops down onto it, tugging the blankets tight around him as he curls up on his side. His eyes drift shut, and it's not long until sleep takes him.

Outside, the storm rages on.


	10. Chapter 10

Okay so! I was debating whether or not to post this on its own or with day 11, and I decided to because it's not even really intended to fully be part of day 11 and its been a while since I updated. Sorry for the absence, day 11 will be coming soon! (side note: I did some drawings for this fic that you can find on my tumblr, also odd-gelato, under /tagged/twbbis)

* * *

 _He's standing barefoot in the snow, wearing only his T-shirt and jeans, but he doesn't feel the cold. His breath puffs in the still air, and the world is deadly quiet. The road leading away is in front of him, and he can sense the heavy presence of the house behind him. It's watching him, waiting for him to turn around._

 _He doesn't want to turn around. He doesn't want to see it._

 _He begins to walk._

 _The snow doesn't give beneath his feet, and he leaves no footprints. He walks and he walks, but he gets no further from the house. The road stretches on and on, fading into some distant, unseen horizon._

 _His breath stops appearing in front of him, and he wonders if he's still even breathing at all. His blood grows sluggish in his veins, making his limbs feel leaden._

 _Still, he keeps walking._

 _The house is closer now. It casts its shadow over him._

 _He wants to run, but even walking is becoming too hard. He's sinking into the snow now, deeper with each step. Up past his ankles, to his knees. He slows._

 _He stops._

 _Waist deep, he slumps forward, leaning on his forearms pressed flat against the snow. He tries to remember what it's like to breathe, but his chest is empty._

 _The shadow thickens around him, coating the snow like a thin layer of oil. The black oozes over his wrists and begins to coil up his arms, viscous tendrils wrapping around his shoulders, dragging him down._

 _He contemplates struggling, as it curls around his throat and tangles in his hair._

 _He doesn't._

 _Instead, he watches the pure white snow beyond the reach of the shadow as he slowly sinks into the tar. He feels the gluey substance fill up his mouth and nose, and then he's pulled under into inky darkness._


	11. Chapter 11

_Hi there! Warning for some stuff about suicide, because this chapter got darker than I meant it to. Honestly, this whole fic did._

 _[Just wanted to say, if you're interested you should keep an eye on my twbbis tag on tumblr (same username), because there will be some fun extra stuff like doodles and I'm probably gonna start posting the occasional progress update since this fic is taking longer to write than I thought it would. You can also ask me questions in the event that you don't have an account here or if you just feel like it.]_

* * *

[11]

Stan doesn't wake up until about noon. The window is rattling in the strong wind, and beyond the glass is a complete whiteout. He lies on his side and stares vacantly at the threads of the upholstery as he listens to the muffled sounds of the gale.

Time passes.

Eventually, his stomach grumbles. He ignores it.

Time passes.

The storm worsens. He slowly becomes aware of the fact that he's cold. Finally, he finds it in himself to move, if only to pull the blankets tighter around him.

 _The generator must have run out of fuel_ , he thinks.

He's going to have to figure out how to get the main power up and running again.

A shiver runs through him, and he burrows deeper into the blankets. Just thinking about the task is exhausting. It would be so much easier to just… sleep.

Yeah. Sleep.

He should get up. He should fix the power. He should decode the journal, he should save his brother, he should he should he should…

His eyes drift shut.

* * *

 _The muck drags him down and down and spits him back out onto the snow. He lies there, cheek pressed to the cold._

 _He can smell the sea._

 _He looks up._

 _Before him is a snowy beach, waves crested with frost instead of foam. The swing set is there, crusted in ice. Climbing to his feet, he walks up to it and gives one of the swings an experimental push. Ice flakes off the cold ropes._

 _He sits on the left seat, and looks at the one beside him._

 _His younger self looks back._

 _"I messed up, huh," Stan says._

 _The boy doesn't reply. Instead, he hops off the swing and tugs on Stan's hand. He stands and allows himself to be led along the white beach. The only sound is the crunch of their footsteps and the tinkling crash of the waves._

 _They come to the dock where the Stan o' War is moored, icicles hanging from its sails. He climbs aboard and looks back, but the boy hasn't moved._

 _"Are you coming?" Stan asks._

 _The boy shakes his head. "Ford's not here yet."_

 _Stan swallows a lump in his throat. Then he sees, in the distance, a black dot. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs through him._

 _The house is still following him._

 _"I wouldn't count on him," he tells the boy, then descends into the ship's interior. Down here, he's got what his dad had given him in the duffel, plus a few extra supplies. He repacks the bag and resurfaces._

 _The boy is gone, and the house is nearer. He hurries to where he's been keeping the Stanleymobile parked, throws the duffel in the back, and guns it out of there._

 _A quick glance in the rearview mirror tells him that the house is getting close, but when he looks ahead again, the scenery has changed, and he slams on the brakes. The car skids on an icy patch and screeches to a stop. He gets out of the car. His hands are shaking._

 _He remembers this bridge._

 _It's frozen over, like the beach, but painfully recognizable, even though it had been summer when he'd stood on the railing like_ this _, and looked down at the stream far below. The water had looked almost inviting. Now, it's grey and sharp, and just as unforgiving as it would have been nine years ago._

 _He suddenly feels as if someone has dumped a bucket of ice down the back of his shirt, and he knows the house is right behind him. Close enough to touch, if he looked back._

 _He doesn't look back. He's terrified. This isn't how it happened, he tells himself._

 _This isn't how it happened._

 _But he can't take the step back this time._

 _He can only take the step forward._

* * *

He wakes with his heart in his throat and his body aching with phantom pains of broken bones. His breath puffs in the air before him, little white clouds that remind him he's alive.

Wait. There's something wrong about that. That means it's cold. Colder than before. Too cold.

Now that he's thinking about it, he realizes that the blankets aren't working as well as they could be.

He really should do something about this.

Somehow, he manages to gather the energy to sit up and stand. Still wrapped in blankets, he shuffles over to the desk and sinks into the chair. What next? He's not sure he has it in him to get up again. It's like there's a weight on him, making every move a monumental effort.

He stares at the two journals laid out on the desk in front of him. The one on the left is his brother's, and the one on the right is his. He puts his hand on Stanford's journal. "High six," he mumbles, and he makes an odd wheezing sound that might be a laugh. Who is he kidding? He'll never be able to crack this thing, not in a million years. And Stanford… Stanford won't ever forgive him, not after everything that's happened. That jerk knows how to hold a grudge.

After a long moment, he picks up a pen and turns to the next blank page in his own journal. He writes:

 _I'm going to die here._

Because the cold is sinking into him, making his muscles feel stiff, and his head is cloudy, and he's so very weary, and it's not like he's ever been any good to anyone, anyway. He slumps over the desk and closes his eyes.

He wonders if he'll wake up.

He hopes he doesn't.

* * *

 _The duffel bag hits him in the chest like a ton of bricks. Curtains pull shut, a door slams closed._

 _He's alone on a sidewalk, on a boulevard lined with empty storefronts. Snow is pushed into piles against the curb and the cement under him is scattered with salt, but there's no cars, no people._

 _He can smell the sea._

 _Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, he begins to walk. This is a path he knows well, even with the odd sense of displacement the abandoned buildings give him, and it's not long before he reaches the beach._

 _It's like an ice sculpture, waves frozen mid-crash, contours in the sand like ripples in marble. The swing set is in front of him, and a little further is the Stan o' War, all as if carved from a solid block. He begins to walk in the direction of the sailboat, but he's headed away from the shoreline, to a rocky formation with a deep cave in it. Planks of ice board up the entrance, and he contemplates them for a moment before punching them. Splinters of ice slice into his fist, and the tinkling as the shards rain down pokes holes in the eerie silence._

 _Ignoring the damage to his hand, he steps inside, the broken pieces of ice crunching under his sneakers. He traces his fingers along the wall, leaving streaks of blood behind as he searches for the names that should be there, but the ice is blank._

 _Reluctantly, he moves on._

 _The tunnel is longer than he remembers, and it gets colder and colder the further he goes. He shivers, wishing he had a jacket, and more than once he nearly slips on the icy ground. Finally the tunnel opens into a large cavern, and he comes to a stop next to a frozen pond. Where the Stan o' War had been, before it had been the Stan o' War, is instead a door. It doesn't seem to be attached to anything, simply standing alone on a pile of rocks. He circles it warily. It's familiar, but it's not_ The _Door, so he opens it and steps through into his childhood bedroom._

 _It's all here – Fort Stan, collections of junk they found on the beach and called treasure, Ford's stacks of sci-fi dime novels and Stan's stacks of comic books, everything. The blankets on both levels of the bunk bed are a twisted mess, as if only recently vacated. Morning sunlight shines through the window, warm and sleepy._

 _Something smells good, so he drops the duffel bag on his bed and finds his way to the kitchen. He enters in time to see his mom place a plate of bacon and eggs on the table._

 _"Hey, Ma," he says, sitting down._

 _"Mornin', hon," she replies as she kisses him on the head. "Your pa took Stanford with him to the swapmeet, so it's just us today."_

 _Stan makes a sound of acknowledgement and begins to eat. His mother putters around the kitchen, cleaning dishes and wiping down countertops. She doesn't often cook and clean without complaining, or roping someone else in, so today must be one of her better days._

 _After a few bites, he sets the fork down and hesitantly asks, "Ma?"_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"Did I…" He pushes a piece of bacon around the plate. "Did I disappoint you?"_

 _The clattering of dishes stops, and he stares intently downwards in the sudden tense silence. Then his mom lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he jumps a little in surprise at the contact._

 _"No, sweetie," she says. "Never."_

 _He looks up at her, hot tears pricking at his eyes. "But I ruined everything, and I know Dad hates me, and Ford-"_

 _She pulls him to his feet and wraps him in a tight hug. "You made mistakes, and you'll make more," she says, "but you'll always be my little free spirit, and there'll always be someone who loves you."_

 _Shaking, he hugs her back as hard as he can, and she smells like home, when home was good._

 _Then a freezing wind blows by, and his arms are empty._

 _Wiping his eyes dry, he looks up to see he's in the front yard, next to the barbed wire fence. His car is ready and waiting for him, on the road leading away._

 _He can smell the sea._

 _He turns and faces the house._

* * *

He awakes with a start, shivering violently. His journal is still open in front of him, and the pen is still in his grip.

His jaw sets, and he narrows his eyes. He furiously scribbles out the previous sentence and scrawls under it with a shaking hand:

 _I'M NOT GONNA DIE HERE_

It doesn't matter if it takes a million years. It doesn't matter if his brother never forgives him. It doesn't matter that he's starting to lose feeling in his fingers and toes. He's Stanley Fucking Pines, and he's gonna _live_.

So what does he need to do next?

Since the portal would have caused a power surge, the problem is most likely a blown fuse. He didn't see a fuse box or anything inside the house, so it's probably outside. Twisting around in the chair, he looks behind him and out the window.

Or, it would be out the window, except 'out the window' is almost completely white. He can hear the wind whipping by. This is probably one of the worst storms he's ever seen.

 _It doesn't matter_.

Standing up and letting the blankets fall, he takes his jacket off the back of the chair and shrugs it on.

He thinks he remembers seeing mechanical supplies in the closet he'd gotten the punching bag from, so he goes into the hall. The chill of the wood floor seeps through his threadbare socks, and he tries to suppress another shiver. He has to move fast – he'd wasted too much time feeling sorry for himself, and he knows that hypothermia is digging its claws in.

The closet isn't far, and he rummages through the boxes until he finds a collection of spare fuses. There are a couple different kinds, so he just shoves them all into his jacket pocket. That done, he heads for the door, flexing his hands to try working some life back into them. He takes Ford's coat off its peg and puts it on over his own jacket, and does the same with the pair of slacks he'd left behind for an extra layer of pants. After sliding into his boots, he finds a pair of gloves and pulls them on. He tugs his beanie down over his ears and flips up his hood. Then, taking a deep breath, he opens the door and steps outside.

The cold smacks him in the face like a thousand icy needles, and the wind nearly blows him back through the doorway. He wrestles the door closed, then grabs his hood to hold it in place.

Thinking that the fuse box might be near the generator, he heads in that direction. The flurry is so dense he can barely see ten feet in front of him, and he keeps pressed to the side of the house for guidance, as well as support against the powerful gusts. After what seems like an eternity, he reaches the generator, and he searches the wall for the fuse box.

It isn't there.

"F-f-fuck," he hisses through chattering teeth.

Maybe it'll be around the next corner. He pushes on, feeling along the wall as visibility drops, the storm thickening around him. But it's not around this corner, or the next. _This house has too many damn corners_ , he thinks.

He slumps against the wall. His face is going numb, and even if he finds the fuse box, he's not sure he'll be able to get his fingers to work properly, and even if he succeeds, he still has to make it back inside and wait for it to warm up and he's so _tired_ and his limbs feel heavy and

No.

 _No_.

Gritting his teeth, he leans into the wind and takes a step. His foot sinks further into the snow than he expects and he loses his balance, slamming back into the wall. He shoves away from it and takes another step, then another, and another. The gale buffets him as he slogs through the snow, running his hand along the side of the house. He turns another corner and keeps moving, one arm raised to shield his face.

Then his hand bumps into something.

It's the fuse box.

A hoarse laugh tears out of his throat, and he scrambles to find the latch and opens it. He flicks its switch down to 'off' and finds the blown fuse. Digging the replacement fuses out of his pocket, he compares them to the broken one and, squinting against the wind, finds its match. He stuffs the others back into his pocket and is about to put the new fuse in when a particularly forceful blast of air hits him from behind and pitches him forward. Unable to catch himself in time, his forehead cracks against the corner of the fuse box, and he crumples to the ground.

There's a hazy moment, and then he rolls onto his back and wonders why something on his face feels warm. He puts a hand to his cheek and pulls away, blinking slowly a couple of times before he registers that there's blood on his glove.

Letting his hand drop, he struggles to think. There's something he's trying to do. Something important. What is it?

He looks up. Above him is a metal box attached to the wall. A fuse box.

In his other hand is a fuse.

Right.

Turn the power back on.

But the fuse box seems so far out of reach, and his eyelids feel like lead. Maybe just a quick nap…

He remembers cold nights sleeping in the back seat of his car, shivering under a pile of blankets but unable to turn the heater on because it would eat up gas, unable to find a room for the night because he had no money. But he always made it through. In the morning, he would pick a pocket or two and get a warm meal. He survived. That's what he always did, always does.

Survive.

No matter what, he survives.

He forces his eyes open and struggles upright, clinging to the fuse box and using it to pull himself to his feet. It takes him a few tries, but he manages to fumble the new fuse into place, and then he flips the power switch back up.

Inside, lights flicker on.

He thinks he might be grinning as he wipes blood from his eyes, but he doesn't have enough sensation in his face to be sure. Closing the box, he stumbles onwards – he only has to turn one corner to get to the nearest door, and counts himself lucky. He practically falls inside, and has to put his full weight in to closing the door behind him.

He's across from The Door, so he staggers away into the adjacent room. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a vent in the floor. Shudders wrack his body, and he can't feel his legs under him, but somehow he manages to get over to it. There's already heated air drifting out, and he collapses next to it, trying to get closer to that warmth. Sleep tugs at him, and he can finally give in.

He wonders if he'll wake up.

He hopes he does.


End file.
